London Prep

by Dodd, Jillian

  “How’s the coffee?” I ask, turning toward Noah, who has his backpack on his desk, his head resting on it.

  He lifts his head up, turning to face me, and grabs the cup of coffee off the floor. He takes a sip, his eyes going wide.

  His face sours as he takes a big gulp, and he says, “Disgusting.”

  His eyes have dark circles under them, and I wonder if it means he didn’t sleep well or if he really is just a lightweight. I saw him drinking last night, but he didn’t seem drunk by any means. He was definitely tipsy and is just likely being a big baby about it this morning.

  “But effective,” I counter, pulling the apple juice I bought at the coffee shop out of my purse.

  I take a sip, not at all liking the way the apple mixes with the leftover coffee taste in my mouth. Noah pulls a granola bar out of his backpack, tossing it onto my desk.

  “Trade you?” he asks, holding out a coffee cup.

  “Absolutely,” I reply, my eyes going wide at the thought of a second cup.

  Noah takes a small sip of the apple juice and then places his head back down onto his backpack.

  “So, Harry lives in that huge house, basically all alone?” I ask, thinking back to last night again as I bite into the granola bar.

  “Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, the maids are there. And his parents do drop in every once in a while. Not normally at the same time though,” he says, his voice low.

  I nod, trying to understand how two parents would let a high schooler practically live by themselves. Even with all the freedom my parents give me, they still make a huge deal over weekends away when they know I will have the house to myself.

  He continues, “It’s an odd situation really. His mum used to be there full-time. Running the house and all that.”

  “And what happened?” I ask, leaning in closer toward him.

  More students filter into the classroom, and I don’t want anyone to overhear our conversation.

  “I think she got sick of always waiting around for Harry’s dad. He’s not the most lovable guy,” Noah says tentatively. And that thought makes me feel bad for Harry. “She ended up demanding a role in his company, and now, they’re both gone, traveling all the time. And when she’s not gone for work, well, like Harry said, spa weekends and the such. But who knows?”

  I try to absorb his words. Most people would think that she was living the dream. That beautiful house, not working, raising her son. But I can understand. She probably had aspirations. Maybe she gave them up to have a family. Or maybe she was just tired of waiting around all day for someone else. Maybe she was just being selfish? I guess Noah’s right; who knows?

  “At least he has you. And it sounds like he’s close to your mom.” I smile, trying to bring a little brightness back to the conversation. I’m surprised when he smiles back at me.

  “He’s like family. A sort of adopted brother. Mum loves having him around.”

  “He does have a unique personality,” I admit.

  “That’s Harry. One day, he’s rising with the sun, and the next, he’s sleeping through lunch,” Noah replies, his eyes holding more sadness than admiration.

  “And on the days he’s sleeping through lunch?” I ask, pushing for him to continue.

  Noah lays his head back down onto his backpack, his eyes connecting with mine. “Well, those are usually the days you know his family is home.”

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  The classroom door opens, and Mr. Johnson walks into the room. I turn my attention to him, noticing that he looks as fresh as I was feeling before the conversation about Harry. He sits down on the corner of his desk. I actually appreciate his style—or, well, swagger. And I think if I could get past the fact that he teaches Statistics, he might actually be cool.

  “Sorry for the tardiness,” he says, addressing the class, before revealing a smile. “I’m excited for the second set of presentations to come today.”

  Yes. I slide happily into my seat as I realize that we aren’t doing any work again today.

  When we get halfway through our class, the bell rings, and it startles me.

  “What was that for?” I ask, turning to Noah.

  His chin is in his palm, and he was practically asleep, but the bell must have roused him because he’s wiping at his eyes, trying to get them to refocus.

  “Class is over,” he states, finally awake, looking at me like I’ve lost it.

  “But it’s only half over,” I start, and then I remember.

  Tuesday afternoons are for sports.

  “Shit, I forgot to pick a sport,” I say frantically, grabbing at my bag and the coffee cup on my desk. “Ms. Adams asked me to come by her office this morning to let her know which one I wanted, and I completely forgot.” I huff to myself. I can’t believe it. I was actually having a really good morning, and now, this. “What do you think I should pick?” I ask Noah as we walk out of the classroom. “I haven’t even looked over the list.”

  “Well, what sport did you play at your last school?” he asks, stopping in the hallway. He’s curiously looking down at me, one hand holding on to his backpack hanging over his shoulder.

  “I didn’t,” I state, realizing he will obviously be of no help. I’ll have to pick one and just wing it.

  Noah shakes his head at me as I rush off down the hallway, trying to find my way back to Ms. Adams’s office.

  “Ms. Adams?” I ask, knocking lightly and then sticking my head into her office. There’s not a secretary’s desk outside the office, so I figured that meant she was fair game for drop-ins.

  “Yes?” I hear her reply, and I walk into her office, trying not to look as frantic as I feel.

  “Sorry, it’s Mallory. Mallory James. I was supposed to come by your office to pick my sport.” I sigh, taking a seat in the chair opposite her desk.

  “Right.” She’s moving about as slow as Noah this morning, obviously not in a rush. “Miss James,” she says, finally finding my file after a painstakingly long search through a stack on her desk. “And what sport have you chosen?”

  She finally looks up at me, and my eyes go wide with the realization that I don’t even remember what my options are.

  Goodness, Mallory, pull yourself together.

  “Um, may I see the list again?” I ask, a blush spreading across my cheeks.

  I usually have my shit more together than this. I give her my best sweet smile and a bashful shrug, hoping she’ll go easy on me. But she doesn’t seem the least bit upset.

  “Of course,” she replies, actually giving me a smile. “First days can be eventful and stressful. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you,” I respond, finally calming down a bit.

  I take the list she hands me, looking over it. There are, like, a thousand different options on this list, depending on your year and if you want a personal or competitive sport. There’s football, rowing, cricket, dance, and a whole lot of other courses. One catches my eye, and I decide.

  “I would like to take yoga,” I say, looking up at Ms. Adams, handing her the sheet back.

  “Very well,” she replies approvingly. “It’s one of our recent additions.”

  “It’s great that the school is branching out. The options are way more extensive than I realized.”

  “They are. We are even looking at an all-boys yoga course for the coming year,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

  The thought of having to do yoga this afternoon doesn’t bother me at all, and my worries about getting hit in the head with a soccer ball or falling out of a rowing boat are put at ease by my choice.

  Even though I can be a little competitive, I would rather compete with myself. And that’s the beautiful thing about yoga. You go at your own pace, and you don’t worry about anyone else. There is instruction but always room for improvement, which makes it a challenge. And I could use a little om time after spending the day in classes.

  “All right, dear,” Ms. Adams says as she finishes filling out a form. “Yo
u’ll have three courses this morning, your lunch, and then you will have your final course before going to your sport. Report to the Activities Center. Yoga is in room 115.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the paper from her. Room 115. The number settles into my brain, and this time, I know better than to look for it on the first floor. Ha! Take that Kensington School.

  I’m starting to feel smug with myself when Ms. Adams adds, “Did you bring a change of clothes?”

  Shit. No.

  I shake my head at her, knowing what’s coming next. I’m going to be in trouble.

  But instead, she says, “That’s all right for today. There should be a lost-and-found in the girls’ changing room; it should get you through today. Since it isn’t a competitive sport, uniforms aren’t given out, I’m afraid.” She shrugs at me, and I sink lower into my chair.

  Ew. That’s even worse. The idea of putting on someone’s old and forgotten clothing that was probably scraped out from under the bleachers is definitely a hard no for me. My good mood from this morning is quickly slipping away, but I try to remain positive. I’ll just have to figure out something before then.

  “Okay.” I give her a half-smile just as the bell rings. She looks between me and the clock, pursing her lips.

  “Here’s a tardy pass,” she says, handing me another slip of paper. “You’d better be off to class.”

  I nod at her, picking up the papers. She’s pouring herself a cup of tea as I leave the room.

  Figures. She gets to sip on tea in peace while I will have to walk into Latin late.

  A hot commodity.

  Latin

  I give my teacher the pass and take a seat in the open chair next to Mohammad.

  He leans into me, trying to talk incognito.“You have no idea how many girls I had to fight off to keep this seat saved for you.” He smirks, his golden eyes glowing.

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “No, really,” he emphasizes. “I’m a hot commodity, if you haven’t realized.”

  He nods his head at me, looking around at the other girls in the classroom. None of them are paying any attention to him, but that doesn’t stop him from raising his eyebrows at them, winking at the backs of their heads. It sends me into a fit of giggles, and I end up coughing to hide them.

  “My hero,” I whisper back, mockingly batting my eyelashes at him.

  It brings a grin to his face, and I can’t help but smile along with him.

  “It’s the truth,” he says, leaning closer. His cologne, a mixture of spices, follows him. “Women love me.”

  “Well, I don’t know about women, but I definitely do. And I really appreciate the seat—and the help with Latin,” I say, eyeing his textbook. My lips pull into a hopeful smile.

  He looks across my desk, realizing that, yet again, normally put-together Mallory doesn’t have her textbook with her.

  “Here,” he says, shaking his head at me, letting out a sigh. He hands me his textbook, scooting his desk a little farther to the left so he can look across my desk and still read.

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Professor—I can’t remember his name—starts writing out something across the whiteboard, and I copy it down in my notebook, trying to follow along with him in the textbook. It feels like no time has passed when the bell is ringing again, and he announces our homework.

  “Two down, two to go,” Mohammad whispers. He puts his backpack on fully, holding on to the front straps, waiting next to me.

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask. “Class is over.” I shove everything into my purse, getting my notebook put away and handing the textbook back to him.

  “I think last night’s singing session might have been too much for me,” he admits.

  I put my bag onto my shoulder, walking out of the classroom alongside him.

  “You lost your voice!” I laugh, remembering how Mohammad was belting out songs. “I will say, I loved your dance moves, and the way you used the cue as your mic was impressive.”

  “Ha-ha,” he replies, rolling his eyes at me. His voice is louder but rough.

  “I’m serious,” I say, taking his arm. “You gave it your all.” I try to say it seriously with a straight face, but I can’t help it. I let out another laugh.

  “That’s what I get for trying to entertain my friends,” Mohammad says, pretending to be offended. But his eyes are still sparkling, and I know that he isn’t.

  I wrap him up in a big side hug.

  “I loved it. Besides, it could have been worse. I think Noah might be just a tad hungover today. He was a little grumpy this morning.”

  “Yeah, he isn’t the funnest person to be around when he’s nursing a hangover,” Mohammad agrees, reminiscing on all the times he must have had a little too much of a good time with Noah. And had to pay for it the next day.

  “I actually think I prefer hungover Noah to judgy and angry Noah. At least hungover Noah sleeps through class and doesn’t look at me like I’m a disgusting little bug every five seconds.”

  “You didn’t seem to be bothering him last night,” Mohammad replies, raising his eyebrows at me.

  And I know what he’s getting at—specifically the tickling and the way he was straddling me.

  “Please,” I scoff. “I don’t think anything could have bothered Noah last night. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him giggle before, and honestly, I’m not sure I’d like to hear it again.” I start walking toward my locker, remembering what Ms. Adams said about three classes before lunch.

  Mohammad yells something at me—or tries to—but his voice doesn’t carry, and he just waves me off as he walks in the other direction. I get to my locker, realizing I’ve got class with Noah next.

  And then lunch with him.

  And what Mohammad said has got me thinking. Noah and I did have fun last night. We were getting along. At least we were when he stopped being a giant ass for two seconds. And he was fun.

  Hmm. Maybe Mohammad’s right. Maybe I should be nicer to him. Because we all did have a good time. And it would be easier to just get along. Especially with how things are going with Harry.

  The thought of Harry puts a smile on my face. It’s decided. I’ll make more of an effort with Noah in hopes that it will make life just that much more fun. I put away my stats book, slamming my locker closed.

  Mindlessly playing.

  Art

  I make it to class with seconds to spare, finding Noah already on his stool at our table. He has his face, once again, resting on his backpack. I try to be quiet, wondering if I should say something or just let him sleep.

  “I have no idea how I’m going to make it through football today,” Noah finally comments, looking up at me.

  His hair is a disaster, and I’m pretty sure that he’s probably slept his way through his morning classes.

  “I bet that you’ll feel better after lunch,” I reply, trying to help.

  Noah gives me a little pout, and I think my heart might actually melt for him a little, but only because he looks so pathetic. And I’m not sure I’ve seen him look so unruly before. He’s always so collected.

  “Noah,” I say, trying to perk him up.

  I pat his shoulder, noticing that his muscles tense under my palm. That’s not what I was hoping for, so I give his back a little rub.

  “Don’t worry. For lunch, we will get you something juicy and greasy and filling to soak up whatever alcohol is left in you.” I smile at him, making big circles across his back.

  Noah opens one eye, peeking over at me. “Thanks.” He lets out a sigh. “You’re probably right. I just need something to get me over the hump, so Coach doesn’t have my ass in practice.”

  My fingers work their way up to his shoulder then mindlessly play with the hair around the collar of his shirt.

  “Yeah, let’s just aim for getting you to practice.” I laugh. “I think between not running this morning and then a greasy lunch, you probably won’t be in the best shape.”

  “S
hit,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I completely forgot about the running.”

  “Relax,” I reply, my fingers slipping up into his hair. I normally wouldn’t sit and rub a guy’s hair in class, but it seems to be making him feel better.

  I look toward the front of the room, noticing our art teacher still sitting at her desk. Apparently, she’s not ready to start class either.

  “You know, I used to run with my dad in the mornings.” I smile at the thought. “He knew how much I was not a morning person, so he would bring me warm coffee in bed, and we would sit and talk until I woke up. Then, he would drag me out of bed, and we’d go running through the park.”

  “Really?” Noah asks, looking surprised.

  I nod my head. “Yeah, my dad has a way of getting me to do what he wants while still making me feel like I have a choice. He isn’t pushy, but he also pushes me, if that makes sense.”

  “It does actually,” Noah replies.

  I put one elbow on the table, my other resting on his back, and I realize that talking about running with my dad has left me feeling calmer myself.

  Noah’s eyes flutter, and I can tell he doesn’t want me to stop, so I don’t.

  “That feels really nice,” he whispers, leaning his head into my palm.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “You know, you could go running with me in the mornings, if you want.”

  I pinch my brows in, surprised by his offer. I move my gaze from his hair to his face, wondering if he’s serious. His brown eyes have some of their warmth back, the dullness in them from this morning fading away. He’s searching my face, waiting for my answer.

  “Okay,” I practically stutter.

  Noah gives me a small nod, and I swear, I see the corner of his lips want to pull into a smile, but it doesn’t. He closes his eyes again, but then our teacher is standing, turning on the projector.

  “Let’s get started, everyone,” she says. “We will continue today with our shading.” She motions for us to come up to her desk and collect our drawings from the last class.